白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第27章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


eft　in　the　world　is　microscopic。　But　I　can　live　with　that。　What　scares　me　is　have　they　thought　it　through　pletely？〃
　　〃You　feel　a　vague　foreboding；〃　I　said。
　　〃I　feel　they're　working　on　the　superstitious　part　of　my　nature。　Every　advance　is　worse　than　the　one　before　because　it　makes　me　more　scared。〃
　　〃Scared　of　what？〃
　　〃The　sky；　the　earth；　I　don't　know。〃
　　〃The　greater　the　scientific　advance；　the　more　primitive　the　fear。〃
　　〃Why　is　that？〃　she　said。
　　At　three　p。m。　Steffie　was　still　wearing　the　protective　mask。　She　walked　along　the　walls；　a　set　of　pale　green　eyes；　discerning；　alert；　secretive。　She　watched　people　as　if　they　could　not　see　her　watching；　as　if　the　mask　covered　her　eyes　instead　of　leaving　them　exposed。　People　thought　she　was　playing　a　game。　They　winked　at　her；　said　hi。　I　was　certain　it　would　take　at　least　another　day　before　she　felt　safe　enough　to　remove　the　protective　device。　She　was　solemn　about　warnings；　interpreted　danger　as　a　state　too　lacking　in　detail　and　precision　to　be　confined　to　a　certain　time　and　place。　I　knew　we　would　simply　have　to　wait　for　her　to　forget　the　amplified　voice；　the　sirens；　the　night　ride　through　the　woods。　In　the　meantime　the　mask；　setting　off　her　eyes；　dramatized　her　sensitivity　to　episodes　of　stress　and　alarm。　It　seemed　to　bring　her　closer　to　the　real　concerns　of　the　world；　honed　her　in　its　wind。
　　At　seven　p。m。　a　man　carrying　a　tiny　TV　set　began　to　walk　slowly　through　the　room；　making　a　speech　as　he　went。　He　was　middle…aged　or　older；　a　clear…eyed　and　erect　man　wearing　a　fur…lined　cap　with　lowered　flaps。　He　held　the　TV　set　well　up　in　the　air　and　out　away　from　his　body　and　during　the　course　of　his　speech　he　turned　pletely　around　several　times　as　he　walked　in　order　to　display　the　blank　screen　to　all　of　us　in　the　room。
　　〃There's　nothing　on　network；〃　he　said　to　us。　〃Not　a　word；　not　a　picture。　On　the　Glassboro　channel　we　rate　fifty…two　words　by　actual　count。　No　film　footage；　no　live　report。　Does　this　kind　of　thing　happen　so　often　that　nobody　cares　anymore？　Don't　those　people　know　what　we've　been　through？　We　were　scared　to　death。　We　still　are。　We　left　our　homes；　we　drove　through　blizzards；　we　saw　the　cloud。　It　was　a　deadly　specter；　right　there　above　us。　Is　it　possible　nobody　gives　substantial　coverage　to　such　a　thing？　Half　a　minute；　twenty　seconds？　Are　they　telling　us　it　was　insignificant；　it　was　piddling？　Are　they　so　callous？　Are　they　so　bored　by　spills　and　contaminations　and　wastes？　Do　they　think　this　is　just　television？　'There's　too　much　television　already—why　show　more？'　Don't　they　know　it's　real？　Shouldn't　the　streets　be　crawling　with　cameramen　and　soundmen　and　reporters？　Shouldn't　we　be　yelling　out　the　window　at　them；　'Leave　us　alone；　we've　been　through　enough；　get　out　of　here　with　your　vile　instruments　of　intrusion。'　Do　they　have　to　have　two　hundred　dead；　rare　disaster　footage；　before　they　e　flocking　to　a　given　site　in　their　helicopters　and　network　limos？　What　exactly　has　to　happen　before　they　stick　microphones　in　our　faces　and　hound　us　to　the　doorsteps　of　our　homes；　camping　out　on　our　lawns；　creating　the　usual　media　circus？　Haven't　we　earned　the　right　to　despise　their　idiot　questions？　Look　at　us　in　this　place。　We　are　quarantined。　We　are　like　lepers　in　medieval　times。　They　won't　let　us　out　of　here。　They　leave　food　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs　and　tiptoe　away　to　safety。　This　is　the　most　terrifying　time　of　our　lives。　Everything　we　love　and　have　worked　for　is　under　serious　threat。　But　we　look　around　and　see　no　response　from　the　official　organs　of　the　media。　The　airborne　toxic　event　is　a　horrifying　thing。　Our　fear　is　enormous。　Even　if　there　hasn't　been　great　loss　of　life；　don't　we　deserve　some　attention　for　our　suffering；　our　human　worry；　our　terror？　Isn't　fear　news？〃
　　Applause。　A　sustained　burst　of　shouting　and　hand…clapping。　The　speaker　slowly　turned　one　more　time；　displaying　the　little　TV　to　his　audience。　When　he　pleted　his　turn；　he　was　face　to　face　with　me；　no　more　than　ten　inches　away。　A　change　came　over　his　wind…beaten　face；　a　slight　befuddlement；　the　shock　of　some　minor　fact　jarred　loose。
　　〃I　saw　this　before；〃　he　finally　said　to　me。
　　〃Saw　what　before？〃
　　〃You　were　standing　there；　I　was　standing　here。　Like　a　leap　into　the　fourth　dimension。　Your　features　incredibly　sharp　and　clear。　Light　hair；　washed…out　eyes；　pinkish　nose；　nondescript　mouth　and　chin；　sweaty…type　plexion；　average　jowls；　slumped　shoulders；　big　hands　and　feet。　It　all　happened　before。　Steam　hissing　in　the　pipes。　Tiny　little　hairs　standing　out　in　your　pores。　That　identical　look　on　your　face。〃
　　〃What　look？〃　I　said。
　　〃Haunted；　ashen；　lost。〃
　　It　was　nine　days　before　they　told　us　we　could　go　back　home。
　　III　Dylarama
　　22
　　The　supermarket　is　full　of　elderly　people　who　look　lost　among　the　dazzling　hedgerows。　Some　people　are　too　small　to　reach　the　upper　shelves；　some　people　block　the　aisles　with　their　carts；　some　are　clumsy　and　slow　to　react；　some　are　forgetful；　some　confused；　some　move　about　muttering　with　the　wary　look　of　people　in　institutional　corridors。
　　I　pushed　my　cart　along　the　aisle。　Wilder　sat　inside；　on　the　collapsible　shelf；　trying　to　grab　items　whose　shape　and　radiance　excited　his　system　of　sensory　analysis。　There　were　two　new　developments　in　the　supermarket；　a　butcher's　corner　and　a　bakery；　and　the　oven　aroma　of　bread　and　cake　bined　with　the　sight　of　a　bloodstained　man　pounding　at　strips　of　living　veal　was　pretty　exciting　for　us　all。
　　〃Dristan　Ultra；　Dristan　Ultra。〃
　　The　other　excitement　was　the　snow。　Heavy　snow　predicted；　later　today　or　tonight。　It　brought　out　the　crowds；　those　who　feared　the　roads　would　soon　be　impassable；　those　too　old　to　walk　safely　in　snow　and　ice；　those　who　thought　the　storm　would　isolate　them　in　their　homes　for　days　or　weeks。　Older　people　in　particular　were　susceptible　to　news　of　impending　calamity　as　it　was　forecast　on　TV　by　grave　men　standing　before　digital　radar　maps　or　pulsing　photographs　of　the　planet。　Whipped　into　a　frenzy；　they　hurried　to　the　supermarket　to　stock　up　before　the　weather　mass　moved　in。　Snow　watch；　said　the　forecasters。　Snow　alert。　Snowplows。　Snow　mixed　with　sleet　and　freezing　rain。　It　was　already　snowing　in　the　west。　It　was　already　moving　to　the　east。　They　gripped　this　news　like　a　pygmy　skull。　Snow　showers。　Snow　flurries。　Snow　warnings。　Driving　snow。　Blowing　snow。　Deep　and　drifting　snow。　Accumulations；　devastations。　The　old　people　shopped　in　a　panic。　When　TV　didn't　fill　them　with　rage；　it　scared　them　half　to　death。　They　whispered　to　each　other　in　the　checkout　lines。　Traveler's　advisory；　zero　visibility。　When　does　it　hit？　How　many　inches？　How　many　days？　They　became　secretive；　shifty；　appeared　to　withhold　the　latest　and　worst　news　from　others；　appeared　to　blend　a　cunning　with　their　haste；　tried　to　hurry　out　before　someone　questioned　the　extent　of　their　purchases。　Hoarders　in　a　war。　Greedy；　guilty。
　　I　saw　Murray　in　the　generic　food　area；　carrying　a　Teflon　skillet。　I　stopped　to　watch　him　for　a　while。　He　talked　to　four　or　five　people；　occasionally　pausing　to　scrawl　some　notes　in　a　spiral　book。　He　managed　to　write　with　the　skillet　wedged　awkwardly　under　his　arm。
　　Wilder　called　out　to　him；　a　tree…top　screech；　and　I　wheeled　the　cart　over。
　　〃How　is　that　good　woman　of　yours？〃
　　〃Fine；〃　I　said。
　　〃Does　this　kid　talk　yet？〃
　　〃Now　and　then。　He　likes　to　pick　his　spots。〃
　　〃You　know　that　matter　you　helped　me　with？　The　Elvis　Presley　power　struggle？〃
　　〃Sure。　I　came　in　and　lectured。〃
　　〃It　turns　out；　tragically；　that　I　would　have　won　anyway。〃
　　〃What　happened？〃
　　〃Cotsakis；　my　rival；　is　no　longer　among　the　living。〃
　　〃What　does　that　mean？〃
　　〃It　means　he's　dead。〃
　　〃Dead？〃
　　〃Lost　in　the　surf　off　Malibu。　During　the　term　break。　I　found　out　an　hour　ago。　Came　right　here。〃
　　I　was　suddenly　aware　of　the　dense　environmental　texture。　The　automatic　doors　opened　and　closed；　breathing　abruptly。　Colors　and　odors　seemed　sharper。　The　sound　of　gliding　feet　emerged　from　a　dozen　other　noises；　from　the　sublittoral　drone　of　maintenance　systems；　from　the　rustle　of　newsprint　as　shoppers　scanned　their　horoscopes　in　the　tabloids　up　front；　from　the　whispers　of　elderly　women　with　talcumed　faces；　from　the　steady　rattle　of　cars　going　over　a　loose　manhole　cover　just　outside　the　entrance。　Gliding　feet。　I　heard　them　clearly；　a　sad　numb　shuffle　in　every　aisle。
　　〃How　are　the　girls？〃　Murray　said。
　　〃Fine。〃
　　〃Back　in　school？〃
　　〃Yes。〃
　　〃Now　that　the　scare　is　over。〃
　　〃Yes。　Steffie　no　longer　wears　her　protective　mask。〃
　　〃I　want　to　buy　some　New　York　cuts；〃　he　said；　gesturing　toward　the　butcher。
　　The　phrase　seemed　familiar；　but　what　did　it　mean？
　　〃Unpackaged　meat；　fresh　bread；〃　he　went　on。　〃Exotic　fruits；　rare　cheeses。　Products　from　twenty　countries。　It's　like　being　at　some　crossroads　of　the　ancient　world；　a　Persian　bazaar　or　boom　town　on　the　Tigris。　How　are　you；　Jack？〃
　　What　did　he　mean；　how　are　you？
　　〃Poor　Cotsakis；　lost　in　the　surf；〃　I　said。　〃That　enormous　man。〃
　　〃That's　the　one。〃
　　〃I　don't　know　what　to　say。〃
　　〃He　was　big　all　right。〃
　　〃Enormously　so。〃
　　〃I　don't　know　what　to　say　either。　Except　better　him　than　me。〃
　　〃He　must　have　weighed　three　hundred　pounds。〃
　　〃Oh；　easily。〃
　　〃What　do　you　think；　two　ninety；　three　hundred？〃
　　〃Three　hundred　easily。〃
　　〃Dead。　A　big　man　like　that。〃；　〃What　can　we　say？〃
　　〃I　thought　I　was　big。〃
　　〃He　was　on　another　level。　You're　big　on　your　level。〃
　　〃Not　that　I　knew　him。　I　didn't　know　him　at　all。〃
　　〃It's　better　not　knowing　them　when　they　die。　It's　better　them　than　us。〃
　　〃To　be　so　enormous。　Then　to　die。〃
　　〃To　be　lost　without　a　trace。　To　be　swept　away。〃
　　〃I　can　picture　him　so　clearly。〃
　　〃It's　strange　in　a　way；　isn't　it；〃　he　said；　〃that　we　can　picture　the　dead。〃
　　I　took　Wilder　along　the　fruit　bins。　The　fruit　was　gleaming　and　wet；　hard…edged。　There　was　a　self…conscious　quality　about　it。　It　looked　carefully　observed；　like　four…color　fruit　in　a　guide　to　photography。　We　veered　right　at　the　plastic　jugs　of　spring　water　and　headed　for　the　checkout。　I　liked　being　with　Wilder。　The　world　was　a　series　of　fleeting　gratifications。　He　took　what　he　could；　then　immediately　forgot　it　in　the　rush　of　a　subsequent　pleasure。　It　was　this　forgetfulness　I　envied　and　admired。
　　The　woman　at　the　terminal　asked　him　a　number　of　questions；　providing　her　own　replies　in　a　babyish　voice。
　　Some　of　the　houses　in　town　were　showing　signs　of　neglect。　The　park　benches　needed　repair；　the　broken　streets　needed　resurfacing。　Signs　of　the　times。　But　the　supermarket　did　not　change；　except　for　the　better。　It　was　well…stocked；　musical　and　bright。　This　was　the　key；　it　seemed　to　us。　Everything　was　fine；　would　continue　to　be　fine；　would　eventually　get　even　better　as　long　as　the　supermarket　did　not　slip。
　　Early　that　evening　I　drove　Babette　to　her　class　in　posture。　We　stopped　on　the　parkway　overpass　and　got　out　to　look　at　the　sunset。　Ever　since　the　airborne　toxic　event；　the　sunsets　had　bee　almost　unbearably　beautiful。　Not　that　there　was　a　measurable　connection。　If　the　special　character　of　Nyodene　Derivative　（added　to　the　everyday　drift　of　effluents；　pollutants；　contaminants　and　deliriants）　had　caused　this　aesthetic